Parenthesis
by SilverCascade
Summary: "The sharp smell of petrichor indicates another mission: Mikami's a salvager, and it's time to salvage." Ficlet.


**Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;**  
**Filths savour but themselves.  
**  
**~William Shakespeare, "King Lear"**

* * *

The books Mikami finds are always worth it.

Every Saturday, regardless of the weather, his mood, or his workload, Mikami claims the few hours after noon and before dusk to wander the park. It's an alluring place, though limited in breadth and depth and numbers of trees, but it's peaceful. A welcome distraction, in fact, because it only holds the elderly and their dogs, and the light tittering of children playing together. Stretching his legs after being caged in his office is a relief, and leisurely strolls are more enjoyable than strenuous nights at the gym. Every weekly trip is the same, yet also different, because there's something in the soft squelch of his boots in the autumn mud that's not present in the drumming splashes of summer rain on his umbrella. But the sharp smell of petrichor indicates another mission: Mikami's a salvager, and it's time to salvage.

Behind slim spectacles, his eyes look over the fields; he never strays from the cobbles or gravel or smooth concrete paths, unless a shriveled spine or mould-covered corner catches his eye. His shining black shoes cut the distance - green grass in the summer, hard frost in the winter - and he picks up sodden treasures. His fingers cup the box, taking the excess weight so the backbone doesn't have to.

The pages are wrinkled, of course - he's yet to come across one that isn't soaked to the spine - and they are dirty, stained with rich red mud and grimy splashes of bark-dyed water. His heart stalls as keen eyes assess the damage.

It's no use trying to discriminate. Mikami picks up every one he finds, cradling it in a plastic bag and tucking it into his satchel with a reassuring pat. Speed adds itself to his stride, and he involuntarily finishes his now-brisk walk an hour early, exiting through a rusting, squeaking gate and returning to his apartment across the street.

The first time he rescued an idea, he didn't know what to do. He wanted to save it, and his heart tried to break through his ribs as he stared at the book: he felt like a surgeon, knowing one false move would result in a termination. But nowadays, after saving enough thoughts to line three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, he approaches the task much _like_ the surgeon - with a plan, a method, and a malleability present only in the experienced.

Towels and tissues between carefully eased-open pages start the process: the water has to be gotten rid of first, before it ruins further. He lets cloth and paper absorb what it can. When the materials are saturated, he peels them away. He's skinning away the pain poured into destruction. After scraping off the grey-green mould with a blunt knife, if the leaves aren't too wet that is, he brings out the hairdryer. Having long hair and having to keep it tidy is a chore, but the humming, whirring machine has more purpose than keeping him presentable. Hot air emanates from the silver snout. The harsh breath of electric machinery rouses soaked words. It's a slow process. His hands have numbed many times, because keeping the beast on the lowest notch of the chain takes energy. But he's afraid to let it run wild: if it damages the prize, he'll be angry. Gentleness pays, and he gets what he needs. The afterthought hits him every time: the book is always saved because he follows his routine.

But this one, it is wrecked. He wonders, fleetingly, if a bath could be had in the water wrung from the cover alone. It's time to use the iron. It's easier on the leaves of the book than warm kisses of air, and, laying down more clean sheets between the printed words and metal plate, he presses down until curls of steam and quiet hisses rise together. The book breathes itself back to life. Then, it's left on the windowsill, waning light sucking the last drops of moisture from the pages. The heaters are turned up high in the evening.

The next day, the pages are dry and brittle, like crisp autumn leaves. They smell of betrayal and the earth itself. They even look like leaves: he can remove the water, brush away the tiny twigs, and even squash the pillbugs that wriggle out, but the streaks of burgundy and brown earth are embedded into each printed sheet, now as much a part of the story as the words themselves. He loves them like that: they're pristine in his eyes, because he's brought them back from the brink of death.

Mikami reads every one. He's found some interesting things over the years, from a leather Bible with a ragged cover and a set of battered volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, to a once-glossy and now mangled tourist guidebook and sets of torn, moulding science textbooks. Always science, he notes: he doesn't remember the subject being hateful enough to abandon his books in a park. He's read everything and anything, devouring words that have found their way to him, to teach him, to make him better.

Sometimes he receives strange looks for saving things that aren't people. Mikami doesn't talk about it anymore: they just don't understand. Books can't turn against you. He saves them, and they save him.


End file.
